


Pictures

by IanMuyrray



Series: Fersali [3]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, I might have queer'd it up a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 12:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15509526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: Anonymous said: Fergus doesn’t know what to get Marsali for her birthday





	Pictures

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to otheroutlandertales.tumblr.com

Fergus lounged at the end of a metal pier, cigarette in hand, the sky an early morning blue-gray behind him. Across the bay stood a shadowed city skyline, rectangular windows winking golden in the shadow of buildings. In the distance, sailboats billowed their white sails, stiff, rocking clouds. 

 

_ Marsali’s birthday is tomorrow _ .  _ Fuck. _

 

He drew from his cig, the end glowing a brilliant orange, and narrowed his eyes against a sea breeze. He took a moment to appreciate smoke-filled lungs.  _ God, that feels good. _ he exhaled out of his nose, reluctantly. 

 

He’d met Marsali about a month ago. And it’d been the best month of his life. It was a whirlwind, and yet, he forgot nothing. Time flashed by like lightning, but he knew he could freeze-frame, recall any image he wanted in high definition.

 

Marsali was a walking daydream. He constantly feared he would be roused from it only to find himself alone again. She was tough, funny, sweet, smart-mouthed, and ridiculously sexy. Their relationship had progressed very quickly, and Fergus felt the groove of pavement and the roar of an engine as he raced toward everything he never thought he wanted. 

 

He was terrified, yet glad of it.

 

When apart, they were constantly in contact, unable to refuse the magnetism between them. He felt compelled to update her on the little things during the day, to check in on her smallest moments, to share everything. He had never felt such a depth of connection with anyone before. 

 

He ran his hand absentmindedly over the phone in his pocket. It had been largely silent - nothing from Marsali in a number of days.

 

He stared blankly into the skyline. Boats bobbed around him, the air smelled of sea salt and algae-blanketed rock walls. Fergus frowned. 

 

Rushing into things had its side effects. Like David - someone he reached out to when he was lonely and bereft, someone Fergus had used to pretend another person liked him, cherished him, wanted to spend time with him. But really, David was just someone he could get off with shortly after sending a text. Fergus never had to clean his shitty flat, or shave on his days off, or feel responsible for buying David’s dinner. David wasn’t a boyfriend, wasn’t a relationship; he was only a hookup. 

Fergus hadn’t had an opportunity to reach out to David since Marsali had appeared in the restaurant, looking thoroughly fuckable, extremely dangerous, and forgotten by another man. He had been drawn to her, and watching her storm out of the restaurant made him shed his apron and tie and clock out-- assigned shift be damned. He needed to be near her, to find out if she felt the same undeniable pull. 

 

He flicked his thumb against the cig’s filter end, ashes falling into the harbor water, before bringing it to his lips for a final inhale. He sighed as he exhaled and extinguished the cigarette butt on the metal pier before tossing it into a little rubbish bucket hanging from the pier’s post. 

 

And tomorrow was her birthday. 

 

Fergus had agonized over what to get her. Always strapped for cash, making little money as he did as a server, his options were limited. What the hell was he supposed to buy someone he’s only known a few weeks when it feels like he’s known her longer than time itself? 

 

He had decided to show her how meaningful the time warp was to him. So, he prepared a box of photographs for her. Snapshots of them together, of silly selfies, eating mustard covered hot dogs from a street cart, climbing grassy hills in the park, sharing a slurpee at the theater. Photos of them separate. He had included several of the images she had snapped of him: one while he was reading under a lamp at night, one where he was eating an ice cream sandwich in the car, another where he lounged in bed, nude and happy. 

 

And, of course, there were photos of her that he had taken. Photos of Marsali was the largest category in the box; he couldn’t seem to stop taking photos of her, let alone select only a few of the ones he had taken. He wanted to capture her in all lights, in all settings, in all expressions. 

 

There was one he had taken of her in the shower. He snuck into the warm bathroom and playfully stuck his phone around the corner of the curtain. She had squealed in delight and surprise, trying to knock the phone from his hands and into the running water. Water droplets sprinkled his arm and phone, and he nearly dropped it, but he managed to snap a picture. He had leaned against the sink, admiring the image of her on his cracked screen, the out of date phone broad in his hands. 

 

Shower still running, Marsali whipped open the curtain, wild-eyed and laughing. She leaped forward and tackled him, dampening his t-shirt and jeans. But he hadn’t cared. He stripped out of his wet clothes as quickly as he could and pulled her back under the running water, closing the curtain behind them. 

 

The photo from that day is his favorite. A blurry image of Marsali whooping with laughter, surrounded by running water and steam and sea-foam colored tile. She was covering herself the best she could with one arm while the other extended to swat the camera away. 

 

In that photo was Marsali, the woman. Daring, goofy, fun-loving, kissable, fierce Marsali, who trusted him completely from the moment she had met him, who gave him all of herself before he even realized how much he needed it. 

 

His lips twitched, his mind cascading through tender memory, familiar tobacco whirring through his head. A seagull flew by him, then parted with a low swoop. Twilight was fading. 

 

His phone began to buzz, and Fergus felt his heart stop as he was ripped back into the present. He swallowed hard but didn’t move to grab it. Instead, without checking the name on his screen, he silenced the phone. 

 

Several days ago, he had been in the kitchen, stirring a bubbling pot of noodles for a macaroni and cheese dinner for the two of them. Marsali was on the couch, buried in her computer. 

 

At the last second, he had heard his phone ringing. 

 

“Marsali, could you get that?” he called, tapping starched water off his wooden spoon and reaching for a colander. 

 

“Sure thing, dove,” she had replied, standing up from the couch and heading for his jacket on the coat hook, where his phone waited in a pocket, dinging. 

 

Fergus busied himself by straining the noodles and pulling milk from the fridge, tearing open the cheese packet and dumping it into the new bowl of noodles. 

 

Marsali entered the kitchen, her face stony and cold, and held out the phone. 

 

“Who is it?” Fergus asked, mixing ingredients together, frowning at her severe look. 

 

“It’s a call from some guy named David. He wants to know if ye’re  _ available _ tonight,” she replied, her voice dark and clipped. 

 

Fergus’ stirring efforts stopped abruptly, and he glanced over at Marsali. “Dav-- David?”

 

“Yes,” Marsali replied, terse. “He also sent ye a photo.” 

 

She tossed his clunky, outdated smartphone to the counter where Fergus saw a graphic, closeup of David’s erect penis. 

 

Fergus’ heart leaped into his throat, and his head spun. He rubbed a hand against his forehead, trying to stop it, staring hard at the macaroni bowl before him, the two smaller bowls he had set out for their dinner to share. 

 

“Who is David?” Instead of demanding, Marsali was cold, her blue eyes glittered dangerously with ice. “And how often does  _ this _ happen?” She waved a hand over the phone.

 

“It’s not what you think,” Fergus replied, his mind racing, trying to find a way to explain that wouldn’t upset Marsali further.

 

“It’s not?” she snapped, nodding towards the lit phone screen, David’s erection still displayed. “What is  _ that _ , then?”

 

Fergus flinched. “He was from before you.” He had been so focused on Marsali during the last weeks that everyone else had faded into the background. 

 

“Ye’ve been with men?”

 

Fergus swallowed. While he had reached an incredible level of intimacy with Marsali, he hadn’t yet shared  _ that _ . No one knew he had been sleeping with David, or that David wasn’t the first. “Yes.” His cheeks flushed. 

 

“Why didn’t ye tell me? Did ye really think I would care?”

 

He hadn’t wanted to find out if she’d care, fearing the worst. “Marsali, I--” 

 

“Ye know what, I dinna care about yer interest in men. At all.” The words hung in the air, and for a moment, he felt he believed her. “What I  _ do _ care about is ye sneaking around behind my back. I thought we had something good here, Fergus.”

 

He fought to catch his breath. “We do! Marsali--”

 

“Fergus, I willna have ye lyin’ to me.”

 

“Dammit, would you let me speak!” He gripped the edge of the counter tight with rage and fear, feeling everything slipping quickly away from him. 

 

She glowered at him. “Go ahead then. What have ye to say?” 

 

He breathed deep, ran his hands over his face, wanting to pace the small room that was his kitchen, try to gain some traction. “I didn’t tell you about him because I was a  _ coward _ , Marsali. No one knows!” He took a deep breath. “And I didn’t tell  _ him _ about  _ you _ because he’s not important enough to me. I was just going to ghost him. I have no attachment to David.”

 

“No attachment? Ye seem pretty cozy to me.” She grabbed the phone, held it up again like she was a prize presenter on a bizarre game show he didn’t want to play. 

 

“Put that down! I’m only going to delete it like I have the others.”

 

“The others? You’ve received other photos from him, or there are others who send photos?” 

 

He had, actually, received late-night texts from Rhona, someone he had been seeing several months ago. He ignored them, but... he hadn’t actually deleted them. 

 

Marsali immediately turned to his phone, beginning to search through his messages. He stood there, feeling trapped in quicksand, unable to move for fear of making the situation worse. 

 

Finding the naked photos of Rhona, Marsali looked as if she was going to explode, a powder keg, set to ignite if he had reached to touch her. Full of disgust, she threw the phone at him, and he had to duck quickly to dodge it. It struck the wall and landed with a sharp sound on the linoleum floor. 

 

“Ye didna delete it, you pig,” she uttered. Her eyes were bright and red, tears gathering in her long lashes. “Am I just another one? Another number for you to call when you’re lonely? To keep dirty pictures of?” 

 

“No!” he reached for her, wanting to pull her into his arms, convey with touch what he couldn’t express in words.

 

She swiped at him, denying his embrace, and backed away. Without another word, she threw on her coat and shoes, slamming the door behind her as she left. At the sight of the shuddering door frame, his heart ached, his stomach churned, his head swam.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck his cowardice.  _

 

He hadn’t heard from her in several days. 

 

He leaned back against the pier, all the way back, flattening himself, his ribcage collapsing with resignation. 

 

From the beginning, he could have handled everything differently. He could have been upfront with Marsali, upfront with David, and yet hadn’t been. Because he wanted Marsali all to himself because he didn’t want to upend the boat. Because he was scared.

 

He sighed, lit a second cigarette. Savored it until it burnt to ash and stank of plastic filter. He lay silent, unmoving.

 

But the spell had broken the spell anyway. She was gone. He had gambled and lost. 

 

The car he had been traveling in, towards his everything, disintegrated around him like the smoke he exhaled. His everything disappeared into the twilight, wafting up and away from the city skyline; it drowned in the water, trapped in weeds, too far gone to cry out to be saved. 

 

She haunted him. Even now, he could hear her chastising him for not contacting her. These days apart were an eternity. If life was fast with her, it was glacial without her. 

 

He ran his hands through his hair, sat up. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, finally able to look at it. 

 

He ignored the notification-- it was just a spam email-- and opened an app to message Marsali, even as he guessed she wouldn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say, or where to start, but he had to try something. 

 

A life without Marsali didn’t feel possible. 

 

_ I’m sorry.  _

 

Immediately, the message registered as read. Bubbles from the other side jumped, stopped. Jumped again. He waited, hardly able to take a breath. 

 

_ I know. Miss you. _

 

She had been waiting to hear from him.  _ Thank god. _

 

He stood then, brushed the dust from his jeans. 

 

He found his car, scrounged a pen out of his glove compartment. He opened up the box of photographs beside him in the passenger seat, began to write what he could remember about the moment he took it on the back. His heart leaped as he remembered being together in the park. How content he felt when they lay together. The exhilaration that rushed through him when he snuck into the shower to take a picture of her. He wanted to show her how she made him feel, wanted her to know everything, all of it.

 

It was her birthday tomorrow, dammit, and he wasn’t going to let cowardice or fear, or weakness, stop him from celebrating her. 


End file.
